Dominant Blood

Chapter 1

The noise is the first thing that hits you. A bass-heavy thrum of bodies and bloodlust. The air in the converted warehouse basement is warm and damp, sticking to the skin like a blanket. I roll my shoulders, feeling the pull of old scars and the new, eager tension coiling in my gut.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer’s voice crackles through the shitty speakers, riding the crest of the crowd’s roar. “You’ve seen him bleed, you’ve seen him brawl! The walking disaster from Busan, the alpha who just won’t stay down! Give it up for the THORN PRINCE, HA YUJEONG!”

I push through the heavy curtain and step into the ring. I lift a hand, not waving, just raising my middle finger with a sharp grin. The crowd eats it up. They love a villain. Or an underdog. Tonight, I’m both.

Across the ring, my opponent cracks his neck. He’s a big guy, a beta built like a brick shithouse with a flat nose and a permanent scowl. A bouncer from some upscale club, probably. They always think their size is enough. His name is something forgettable. I don’t bother remembering.

The bell clangs, a cheap, tinny sound swallowed immediately by the swell of shouting.

He comes at me like a bull, all straightforward charge. I slide to the side, letting him rush past. I dance back on the balls of my feet, light in my worn combat boots.

“C’mon, big guy,” I call out. “You gonna hug me or fight me?”

He grunts, swinging a heavy right hook. I duck under it, close enough to smell his cheap deodorant, and tap his ribs with a quick one-two. It’s not meant to hurt. It’s meant to piss him off.

It works. His face darkens. His next swing is wilder. I let it graze my cheek, the sting a bright, welcome spark. I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my lip.

“That all you got?” I taunt, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I can feel the crowd’s energy shifting, feeding off the disrespect. They paid to see a show, not a quick knockout.

He charges again, and this time I don’t move fast enough.

Or maybe I move just slowly enough. A meaty fist connects with my side, right below my ribs.

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp whoosh, and I stagger back into the ropes.

Pain blooms, hot and deep, and a laugh bubbles up in my throat.

There it is. The sweet, clarifying ache.

He follows up, thinking I’m hurt. I am hurt. I just like it. He grabs my shoulder, trying to pin me, and I use his momentum, twisting and driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He wheezes, his grip loosening.

Now it’s my turn.

The playfulness drains from my muscles, replaced by a colder, sharper aggression.

I don’t dance anymore. I become a problem.

A series of them. A knee to his thigh, buckling his leg.

A fist to his kidney, making him fold. He swings blindly, and I catch his wrist, my fingers digging in as I pivot and slam his arm down over my shoulder.

The crack isn’t loud, but I feel it up my own bones. A clean, ugly sound. His scream is swallowed by the crowd’s explosive roar.

He drops to his knees, cradling his arm. The fight’s over. He knows it. I know it.

But the crowd doesn’t want it to be over. They’re chanting my name, or the stupid moniker they gave me. “Thorn Prince! Thorn Prince!”

I look down at him, at the pain and shock in his eyes. For a second, I consider helping him up. Then I remember the look on his face when he thought he had me. The smug certainty.

I don’t help him up. I plant a boot on his good shoulder and shove, not hard, but enough to send him sprawling onto his back on the canvas. A final punctuation mark.

The bell clangs again. The announcer is yelling, declaring me the winner. The money, tucked away by my manager somewhere, is already spent in my head.

I turn my back on the guy on the mat and face the crowd.

I raise both arms, the tattoos on my biceps stretching.

I let their noise wash over me—the cheers, the boos, the sheer chaotic energy of it.

It soaks into my skin, fills the hollow spaces in my chest with something that isn’t quiet.

It’s better than quiet. It’s recognition.

It’s proof I’m here, I’m real, I made someone feel me.

A bottle cap hits my chest and bounces off. I grin, wild and unrepentant, and blow a kiss to the section it came from. They scream louder.

The dressing room is a closet with a mirror.

It feels quieter than it is, the roar of the crowd now a muffled, distant ocean behind a heavy metal door.

I lean against the chipped sink, the porcelain cold through my thin t-shirt, and press a wad of paper towels against my split lip.

The sting is a bright, familiar punctuation mark at the end of the night.

In the mirror, my reflection looks back, a little wild around the edges.

My hair is a mess, stuck to my forehead with sweat and probably a little of the other guy’s blood.

A bruise is already blooming on my cheekbone, a dark purple shadow under the harsh fluorescent light.

I poke at it, enjoying the sharp flare of pain.

The ache in my side from that body shot is a deeper, more satisfying throb.

I breathe into it, letting it fill the space.

The door swings open without a knock. Hansol fills the doorway, his silhouette broad and blocking the light from the hallway. He’s got a thick envelope in one hand, which he tosses onto the bench beside me. It lands with a soft, promising thump.

“Not bad,” he grunts, his voice like gravel in a tin can.

He doesn’t come all the way in, just leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes, dark and shrewd, track over my face, down to the paper towels at my mouth, then back up.

He frowns, the lines around his mouth deepening.

“You could have avoided those first few hits.”

I pull the towels away from my lip, examining the fresh red stain. “Could I?”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you. You baited him. You wanted him to land those shots.” His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. He’s not asking. He’s telling me what he saw.

I grin at him in the mirror, my teeth pink. “You think so, boss? You have so much faith in my self-preservation instincts.”

He snorts. “Faith has nothing to do with it. I’ve been watching guys like you for thirty years. You don’t just take a hit. You invite it.” He shakes his head slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Fucking masochist.”

I shrug, turning away from the mirror to face him fully. The movement pulls at the soreness in my side, and I have to bite back another smile. “It’s just part of the show, old man. Crowd loves it when I bleed a little. Makes ‘em think they got their money’s worth.”

“The crowd loves a winner,” Hansol corrects sharply.

“They don’t pay to watch you get your head knocked off because you’re chasing a thrill.

They pay to watch you do the knocking.” He pushes off the doorframe, his bulk making the small room feel even smaller.

“I’m not your therapist, kid. If you like the pain, that’s no business of mine.

Not my circus, not my monkeys. But it becomes my business the second it makes you slow.

The second you lose because you were too busy enjoying the punch to throw the next one. You understand?”

His eyes are hard. This isn’t concern. This is business.

“Loud and clear,” I say, my voice easy. I pick up the envelope, feeling the satisfying heft of the cash inside. “I didn’t lose.”

“No,” he concedes, turning to leave. “You didn’t. This time. Just remember, the guys who last in this game are the ones who give out more than they take. Even the ones who like taking it.” He pauses in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “Clean yourself up. You look like hell.”

Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a solid click.

Alone again, I let out a breath. My torso in the mirror is a scoresheet of tonight’s activities—the reddening blotch on my ribs, the scrapes on my knuckles, the old tattoos winding through it all like permanent shadows.

I run my fingers lightly over the new bruise, the skin hot and tender. Hansol’s words echo. Fucking masochist.

Maybe. Probably. But he’s wrong about one thing.

It’s not about liking the pain. It’s about needing the proof.

The unmistakable, physical confirmation that I’m here, in this body, and I can feel something that isn’t just the dull, restless buzz that lives under my skin most days.

Pain has edges. It’s specific. It demands your attention.

It’s honest in a way most things aren’t.

My phone, buried in the pile of my clothes on the bench, vibrates with a sound like an angry insect. I dig it out. The screen lights up with a text from Wooil.

Wooil: Crowd sounded insane. You alive? Some of the guys are heading to Eclipse later. You in? Need to celebrate you not dying.

A real smile touches my mouth this time, pulling at the cut on my lip.

The thought of going straight back to my cramped, silent apartment makes my skin itch.

The adrenaline from the fight is fading, leaving behind a hollowed-out, jittery feeling.

The noise of a club, the press of bodies, the possibility of finding someone to burn off this leftover energy with. .. that sounds better. A lot better.

My thumbs move over the screen.

Me: Still breathing. Mostly. Eclipse sounds good. What time?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Wooil: Now-ish. We’re at the noodle place around the corner from you. Get your pretty, bruised ass over here and we’ll go together.

I type back a quick ‘k’ and toss the phone onto my clean shirt.

Finding someone to roll around with tonight might be exactly what I need. Something uncomplicated. A different kind of impact. A distraction with warm skin and no questions asked. The idea settles the restless feeling a little, gives the buzzing energy a direction to flow.